Beyond the Labyrinth
by Shylarra
Summary: Post War, PostHBP, Veela!Draco. The old story, but this time Harry knows he's Draco's mate, and with help from Narcissa, who doesn't want Harry Potter as a son in law, he's determined to keep Draco from ever finding out.
1. Narcissa's Disturbing News

**Title:** Beyond the Labyrinth

**Summary**Post War, Post HBP, Veela!Draco. The old story, but this time Harry knows he's Draco's mate, and with help from Narcissa, who does not want Harry Potter as a son in law, he's determined to keep Draco from ever finding out.

**Disclaimer: **The recognizable characters, settings, and objects in this story belong to J. K. Rowling and her associates, not me.

**Warnings:** Slash, violence (in flashbacks), language.

**Author's Notes:**This is an attempt at a Veela story—hardly a new idea. But I'm changing the rules a bit, in ways that I hope will make the story more interesting. For one thing, Harry is not a helpless victim of fate with no choice but to surrender to the Veela attraction, and neither is Draco. For a second, this is not really a romance; Harry is still dating Ginny at the beginning of this story, and does not _want_ Draco as a life-partner. There are also no secret crushes on Draco's part.

I currently don't have a beta, but if anyone would like to volunteer to help with that, or to be a Brit-picker, or both, you'd be more than welcome. Also, this will be updated irregularly, when I get a chapter finished. I don't plan to abandon it, but updates may well take a while depending on what happens.

_Chapter One: Narcissa's Disturbing News_

Harry stared into space. He'd become quite accomplished at that. Now and then he blew air at a feather on his nose, which tumbled up, trembled, and settled back into the same place thanks to a spell he'd put on it.

If Harry closed his eyes, Voldemort was dying behind them. He preferred to keep them open for right now.

Well, Voldemort wasn't _always_ dying behind them. Sometimes Harry was killing Bellatrix. And sometimes he lay panting and vomiting on the ground outside the labyrinth that had surrounded Voldemort's last hidden lair, with, of all people, Draco Malfoy beside him. Harry couldn't remember the escape through the labyrinth, but he'd been told that Malfoy had saved his life, and Harry now owed him a debt similar to the one Snape had owed his father.

Harry had only those three memories of the entire war. Nothing about finding and destroying the Horcruxes—though both Ron and Hermione assured him he had. Nothing about the secret kisses that he'd apparently sometimes stolen with Ginny at the Burrow. Nothing about how he had finally summoned the pain and the love necessary to kill Voldemort.

Nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

It rather pissed him off.

Harry closed his eyes and rotated his neck with a slow _pop_. If Ginny was there, she might have exclaimed in concern and offered to massage his neck for him, or arched an eyebrow at him and told him to stop lying around in bed and do something. Harry still didn't know her well enough to say for certain. For him, there were the few sunlit weeks they'd shared at the end of sixth year, and then long stretches of blankness, Bellatrix, Voldemort, the end of the labyrinth, and his memory beginning to work perfectly again.

It was late summer. He'd turned eighteen a few days before to the accompaniment of a loud and cheerful party with the Weasleys, as they all attempted, seemingly, to make up for not just a year of his life vanishing but also all the other birthdays he'd had that had gone unacknowledged. Harry appreciated that, he really did. He appreciated everything about his life now, he told himself at least seven times a day. Even the ridiculous adulation from the _Daily Prophet; _Rita Skeeter had apparently discovered a fondness for finding out how many times she could put "hero" and its variants in a headline. It was preferable to the idea that he'd have to face Death Eaters in battle tomorrow. And he was even going to get to return to Hogwarts; the Wizarding Examinations Authority had offered all the students who would have been seventh-years after Dumbledore's death and hadn't gone back to school a bargain, that they complete a normal year of classes as if they were still seventeen and then take their NEWTS. Hermione had looked as if she might break down crying when she'd heard.

Harry appreciated all of it.

But he still wanted to spend the last few weeks of August by himself in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and think, and brood, and try to get used to the idea of having so few memories.

It was the perfect place for brooding. Ron and Ginny tended to drag him to the Burrow when they wanted to see him, not intruding on the silence and the dimness here. Harry almost never saw Kreacher, who probably spent his evenings doing disturbing things to socks, and so long as he didn't speak, Mrs. Black's portrait tended not to wake up. Harry could spend the days lying on his bed, brief times down in the kitchen for meals, and his nights sleeping and reliving the same three memories over and over again in his dreams.

And trying to get used to the ghosts, too, he supposed. Sirius and Dumbledore—and the ones who had died during the war but whom he didn't remember dying. Snape, who of course had been playing for the Light side all along, depriving Harry of even the satisfaction of hating him. Neville, dead in a Death Eater raid Bellatrix had led.

Lupin.

Harry closed his eyes and swallowed. The grief that drifted through him was never the same twice in a row—sometimes angry and bitter, since he didn't even have the memory of seeing Lupin die when he'd been _right there_ as it happened, and the werewolf had died practically in his arms; sometimes gentle and gray, as he reflected that at least it had been quick; sometimes entirely detached, because it had happened to someone else, in another life he'd only read and heard about. That was probably the hardest emotion to bear, just because it refused to stop changing.

The Healers at St. Mungo's said Harry had taken no physical injury to his head that would keep his memory at bay. There was no trace of a Memory Charm—no trace, in fact, of any spell that affected the mind. Ron and Hermione had given Harry solemn promises that his memory still worked right when they destroyed the last Horcrux, Nagini herself, and Harry had Apparated to the labyrinth to face Voldemort.

It seemed that Harry was simply going to have to get used to the idea that a part of his life was gone, and it was easier for him to do that in solitude.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Harry might well have lain there all afternoon if not for something that hadn't happened at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place for the fortnight he'd been living there. He heard the roar and whoosh of a Floo connection, followed by the excited squeals of Kreacher as he fell all over himself to welcome whoever had come through.

Harry stood up stiffly and reached for his wand, which lay on the bedside table, then paused to wipe at his glasses, which had got covered with drifting dust. He could only think of a few people Kreacher would welcome, and none of them were good news. Lucius Malfoy had died in Azkaban, and Harry _knew_ Bellatrix Lestrange was dead, eliminating the worst possibilities, but that hardly meant he had any wish to talk to Draco Malfoy.

He made his way slowly down the stairs to the kitchen, shifting his feet so they made no sound. The kitchen door was half-ajar, and Kreacher's voice shrill enough that Harry could distinguish the words when he was still halfway up the staircase.

"Oh, yes, Kreacher promises that Mistress is welcome—"

Harry blinked. _Mistress? But I don't think he would welcome Tonks or her mother, and that leaves—_

"Yes, yes, Kreacher," said a woman's cold, impatient voice. "You have convinced me of the house's hospitality. Now, fetch your master."

"Kreacher does not like his master," the house-elf complained. "Kreacher would much rather live with and serve beautiful Mistress Malfoy, and Master Draco, who is a very good boy!"

_Narcissa Malfoy._ Harry felt as if he were a Kneazle, all his fur standing on end. He hadn't seen the woman at all during the war—at least that he remembered, or that Ron and Hermione had told him—and she had apparently taken no part in it, having hidden in France, but that hardly meant Harry _liked_ her. She had played a role in Sirius's death. He would not forget that.

He aimed his wand at the kitchen door, and then at Kreacher as the house-elf appeared on the stairs in front of him with a deafening _crack._

Kreacher scowled up at him and shook his head. "Mistress Malfoy is wanting you in the kitchen," he muttered. "Kreacher does not know what bad master has done to deserve such good fortune."

Harry stepped past him, keeping a sharp eye on the treacherous thing, and strode to the kitchen. Narcissa Malfoy was sitting at the table inside, staring around the room with a deep look of disapproval, as if everything inside it smelled of dung. Harry aimed his wand at the side of her face before she even noticed.

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

If he had startled her, she refused to show it. She turned to face him, and Harry vaguely realized she wore black robes, possibly for mourning. He shrugged impatiently. He didn't really care. The sooner she told him what she had come about, the sooner she could hurry up and get out of his house. He hadn't realized the Malfoys would still be able to access it. He would see about keeping them out tomorrow.

Narcissa examined him as if he were an insect. Harry glared back. Yes, the woman was pretty, but that continual look on her face as if she smelled something foul rather diminished the impact of the prettiness. And Harry didn't _owe_ her anything. Hermione had assured him that Draco Malfoy was the only one who could collect on the debt Harry owed him, since he was of age.

"Mr. Potter," said Narcissa, with an abruptness that reminded Harry of a striking bird. "What do you know about veela?"

Harry blinked, and then shook his head, his mind filled with memories of fourth year and the Quidditch World Cup. "They're pale, usually," he said shortly. "They can change into birds when they're angry. They—affect people." It was as much as he was willing to say about the idiocy he'd suffered when they were around. "I know a part-veela girl named Fleur Delacour who married Bill Weasley. She has the hair of a veela in her wand core."

Narcissa nodded, eyes fastened intently on him.

"That's it," Harry pointed out.

Narcissa closed her eyes. "Give me patience," she murmured. "And you call yourself a wizard?"

"Get _out_," Harry said, his temper simmering up again as he thought of Sirius, and the fact that if one Black sister had killed him, another had helped send him to his death. Ron had told him he'd mostly got over missing Sirius during the last year. But without the memory of it, with only the knowledge that he'd laughed when he killed Bellatrix, Harry didn't feel calm and with his mourning in the past. He felt rattled, wanting to be out of Narcissa's company as soon as possible.

"No. Not until you listen to me, you stupid child." Narcissa leaned forward. "My son is half-veela. Do you have any idea what that means?"

Harry shrugged impatiently. "That you're a veela?"

"No," said Narcissa quietly, and she appeared to have followed her own advice, growing patience even as it diminished in Harry. "Half-veela is more a technical term than a descriptive one, at least when the trait reappears after a time long dormant, as it did in me." She touched her blonde hair. "I am the only one among my sisters to carry this hair, the only one in the Black family for several generations. I am called a half-veela not because one of my parents was a veela, but because generations ago one of my ancestors married one, and then had only sons with her. The trait retreated underground, to appear in an appropriate daughter. If I had had a daughter, she would have been quarter-veela, like the Delacour wench. But I had a son, and now he has manifested as a half-veela. His eighteenth birthday was earlier this summer."

Harry concealed a yawn, badly. "Fascinating."

"This concerns _you_," Narcissa told him. "Half-veela have mates, the one wizard or witch—or veela, of course—who can give them what they most need and want. They can match their needs and wants, mentally, with people around them until they find their mates. They have a year, from their eighteenth birthday until their nineteenth, to do so. If that year passes without their finding their mates, they will lose the ability to look into others' minds, and be happy with a spouse their parents choose for them."

Harry cocked his head, studying her. "So Lucius wasn't your mate?"

Narcissa curled her lip. "Fate was not that kind," she murmured. "No, my mate was—someone else. I never knew him. Or her. My parents kept me in seclusion for my eighteenth year, until the madness had passed and I could marry Lucius. I had the best life possible with him." Harry expected to see a shadow of grief in her eyes at that, but saw only coldness. Well, she would hardly spill intimate emotions to him. "And fate has not been kind to Draco, either."

Heartbeats passed in endless silence, while Harry tried to decide if he should laugh or cry. He decided not to do either, in the end. He wouldn't be able to stop if he started.

"I'm Draco's mate," he said.

Narcissa nodded.

"And he doesn't know, but _you_ do?" Harry frowned. "How did _that_ happen?"

"Sometimes a half-veela's unconscious mind will know, but the conscious revelation never happens until he can look into his mate's mind and see his needs and wants satisfied," said Narcissa. "I heard Draco murmuring your name in his sleep. I might have doubted it was you, but he said your full name. And I have asked him in the full light of day. He does not know."

"I don't _want_ to be his mate," Harry pointed out.

"And I don't want you as a son-in-law," Narcissa replied with icy precision. "That is why I will help you escape him."

"If he's returning to Hogwarts and he looks into my mind—"

"He will not." Narcissa touched her robe pocket, and then lifted out a tiny glass vial, while Harry kept her warily at wand-point. The vial sparkled with a liquid that looked like molten silver. "This potion is rare, and not often made because there is not much demand for it, but it will block him from accessing your mind and seeing that your ability to answer his needs and wants matches what he longs for."

"I should trust you and drink that?" Harry regarded her skeptically.

Narcissa shook her head. "I have no need or desire to kill you, Mr. Potter. You owe a debt to Draco that can serve him well in the future. I owed no loyalty to the Dark Lord before the end, not with what he had done to my husband and son—and to the man who had sworn to protect Draco." Harry nodded tightly; Hermione had told him about the mess with the Unbreakable Vow Snape had sworn to Narcissa, which they'd accessed in one of Snape's Pensieves after he died. "And there would certainly be a full Ministry investigation if the hero of the wizarding world perished now, even if it looked accidental. I will _not_ risk going to Azkaban."

"I killed your sister," Harry reminded her.

"A sister who was largely responsible for the fact that Severus had to swear an Unbreakable Vow, and for a good portion of Draco's danger," Narcissa snapped. "I do not mourn her, Mr. Potter, except in ways that you will never understand. The potion is trustworthy. I will send you more of it throughout the term. You need only take it until June. Draco's ability to sense his mate will fade then, when he turns nineteen."

"Won't he be suspicious if mine is the one mind he can't access?"

Narcissa shook her head. "There will be other people he can't look at, people with naturally strong mental defenses. And why should he glance for long in your direction? You are hardly his picture of the ideal mate."

Harry snorted. "Why'd his veela blood choose me, then?"

"I do not know, Mr. Potter. I do not care." Narcissa leaned forward. "He _will_ have a normal life. His veela blood may believe that a life with you would be best for him, but that is not the case. What we want and desire at eighteen changes dramatically by the time we are twenty-four, or thirty, or thirty-five. I will not have Draco bound to you for the rest of his life, in intolerable misery, because of a mistaken, childish decision."

"I don't exactly fancy it either," Harry pointed out. He hesitated. It was the fact he was a Gryffindor that made him ask the next question. Sometimes he loathed his House. "And nothing will happen to him because of this? He won't die?"

"Do I look dead to you?" Narcissa asked.

"I was just wondering if it was different for male half-veela and female ones," Harry muttered, feeling his face heat up. "Since you did say male half-veela were unusual."

Unexpectedly, Narcissa smiled at him. "In fact, it is different," she said. "Female half-veela suffer perhaps a year of unexpected tantrum tempers and mood shifts when they cannot find their mates. That happened to me. Male half-veela suffer five years of deep depression."

Harry stared at her.

"But it will not be fatal," Narcissa went on coolly, "and I assure you that he will thank me—and even you—for this someday. What is five years of depression against a lifetime with someone he loathes?"

"Are you sure he would—"

"I know my son, Mr. Potter, as you do not, and never will if you simply play your part." Narcissa tapped the vial full of the silvery potion. "I assure you, what he wants is the life he has been trained from childhood to want. The normal life, with a wife and children and the social circles you cannot even _aspire_ to. He was his father's son, and mine, long before his veela blood became active and chose you. Yes, he will want this."

After a long moment of consideration, Harry nodded. And really, it wasn't as though he'd throw the rest of his life away to save Draco Bloody Malfoy, would he?

He Summoned the potion vial and caught it as it zoomed over to him. "How much do I take, and how long does it last?" he asked.

"Five drops on your tongue at morning and evening," Narcissa said, standing. "Use the first dose this evening. It is unlikely Draco will meet you before Hogwarts in any case, but we must not take chances."

Harry nodded. He couldn't help but feel a tiny bit grateful towards Narcissa Malfoy, even if she was only doing this because she didn't want him to be her son's mate. "Um, Mrs. Malfoy?"

She turned to look at him as she bent over the Floo.

"Thank you."

Narcissa laughed coldly. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. Potter, I assure you. Lucius would turn over in his grave to know that his son was bound to his Lord's destroyer." She cast the Floo powder into the flames, said, "Malfoy Manor," and stepped through.

Harry turned, shaking his head, and went upstairs. He met Kreacher at the top, rubbing his head lovingly against the banister.

"Kreacher's head may hang here someday, if beautiful Mistress Malfoy is kind," the house-elf murmured rapturously.

"Oh, go clean something," Harry muttered, and strode past him. He'd ask for Hermione's help analyzing the potion before he drank it, of course, and also researching half-veela. But he wasn't going to encounter Malfoy for at least a week and a half, and he had the _time_ to think about this.

It wasn't until he was rifling the Black library for books on veela that he realized this was the most alive he'd felt since the end of the war.

Harry paused when he had the thought, then shrugged. _And with any luck, I'll continue feeling this alive, because there is _no _bloody way that Draco Malfoy is going to find out I'm his mate._


	2. The Wheel of Light

**To everyone who reviewed: **Thank you so much! I've tried to respond in PM's, but I'm not sure if they got sent due to the site's problems with alerts and so on. Therefore, I've briefly responded to specific comments and questions at the end of the chapter.

_Chapter Two: The Wheel of Light_

It was Draco Malfoy's considered opinion that there were very few things that couldn't be improved by a flight on his broom over the extensive grounds of Malfoy Manor, especially in summer, when he had all the time to practice Quidditch on the Pitch that he liked, and house-elves to bring him iced drinks whenever the work of flying grew too much.

Unfortunately, being a half-veela was one of them.

Draco scowled and wiped a hand across his face, scattering drops of sweat into the air. He shuddered a bit at the thought of the picture he must present—he'd been flying hard, and without a care for his appearance, trying his best to leave the inevitable thoughts of his future behind—and then frowned even more fiercely. There was no one out here to see him. No one who mattered, at any rate. It wasn't as though house-elves regularly gossiped about their owners' hygiene.

_But one slip could mean the end of everything, _a very familiar voice cautioned him. It was his father's voice, admired and honored and imitated and fervently studied for so many years that Lucius Malfoy's death hadn't done a thing to diminish its commanding presence. _If you become used to carelessness, Draco, you will inevitably become used to _being _careless._

Draco was hovering and regulating his breath almost before he thought. He hesitated, considered flying fast and sweating some more just to spite his father's shade, then scowled again at his own stupidity and turned towards the ground.

Tilpy, the oldest of their house-elves, met him in the shade of a great old tulip tree that grew not far from the end of the Pitch, in whose branches Draco had lost the Snitch more times than he cared to count. He had a glass in his hand that actually shed a faint steam, as if it had been made with dry ice. Draco took a grateful drink, then gasped. It felt as if his tongue were freezing.

"Is it too cold, Young Master Malfoy?" Tilpy left the babbling up to their two younger house-elves, and spoke with a certain dignity. "Tilpy will exchange it if so."

"It'll do, Tilpy," said Draco, and gave the cold nod his father had perfected for dismissing servants, or Mudblood-lovers, or indeed any form of life lower than an equal. Tilpy gave a bow and vanished.

Draco turned around to survey the Pitch again. It sprawled in the full, rare sunlight of the summer day, canting towards the Manor. Draco sipped again at his drink as he considered the house, built by ancient ancestors of his, but improved considerably by his grandfather Abraxas.

_Enough windows to let in all the sunlight I want, _he thought. _Enough rooms to entertain a hundred guests. Enough imposing walls to intimidate a Headmaster of Hogwarts. A fitting home for a Malfoy._

_If it were really mine._

Draco's hand flexed on his glass, and he had to shake his head and remind himself of calm again.

_If it were mine,_ he said bitterly in his head anyway, _and Mother didn't simply assume I'm a child incapable of handling such a grand property._

It hadn't really been a surprise to find out that his mother didn't consider him an adult, even with everything he'd been through—Draco's eyes flicked, by habit, to his covered left forearm—in the past two years. It _had_ been a severe blow to find out that his father had agreed with her. Lucius Malfoy's will had stipulated that Narcissa was to have full control of the Malfoy fortunes, the Manor, and everything else but some minor, negligible possessions, such as Draco's broomstick and enough money to cover his school supplies, until Draco turned twenty-one or married a suitable wife, whichever came first.

_He never had a chance to see what I did, _Draco thought, and had to lean his forehead against the icy glass to help himself recover this time. _He never knew that I survived six months of flight from the Death Eaters after Snape was caught and before Potter finally did the only worthwhile thing he's ever done and killed the Dark Lord for good. _

Of course, then Draco had to consider whether his father would truly be _proud_ of that. Yes, Draco had survived, but he had done it by venturing into Muggle territory, using magic on the stealth and the sly and then Apparating away before either the Ministry or the hunters could find him, and sometimes, when no other choice existed, circling back, catching, and torturing one of his pursuers until he yielded essential information about the Death Eaters' movements. He had survived months of pain through the Mark before the Dark Lord had finally managed to capture him. Lucius Malfoy would probably say a Malfoy should have stood and fought, and died well if there was no other option.

_But Father bowed. What does that say about him, I wonder?_

Draco thought it said a great many things, none of them complimentary. But he could not voice them. His mother had said that she "would not hear him speak ill of the dead."

And then, as if he needed anything else to think about while trying so hard to understand the cacophony of his life, his eighteenth birthday had arrived, and with it the knowledge that he was a half-veela and apparently had the ability to read others' minds in pursuit of his mate. His mate would provide what Draco wanted and needed, and in return Draco would provide what she—or he—wanted and needed.

Draco had spent the first five days after his birthday determined to believe that his mother was joking. Then they'd gone to Diagon Alley, and Draco's supposed gift had reached out to the people around him. Draco still scowled when he thought about it.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Narcissa parted from him outside Flourish and Blotts, with stern instructions that he was to rejoin her in two hours. Draco had looked coldly at her back, the largest defiance he dared make, and then passed into the bookshop, touching the Galleons in his robe pocket and wishing he could make them multiply that way.

She had given him pitifully little, really, and as if that paucity had spread to the shop itself, Draco could locate only two books he was interested in: _Wizarding Wills and Their Makers_, and _A Dark Guide to Even Darker Arts_. He doubted they would sell the second one to a Malfoy. He examined several shelves for the look of the thing, and nearly bumped into a girl when he turned the corner, though he'd certainly made enough noise that she could have moved out of the way. She gave a little, breathless squeak, and looked up at him. Draco sneered at her. She was perhaps fifteen, with hair and eyes dull as ditch-water—

And he could see the spokes of a wheel projecting from her eyes.

Draco blinked, hard, and stepped backward. But it went on, projecting spokes of light extending like afterimages from the sides of her skull and out through her eyes, her ears, her nose, all reaching towards him. Draco refused to retreat further and look undignified, so he had to put up his chin and hope he concealed his fear as they reached him and brushed into him.

Actually, there had been no sensation when they touched him, much less the painfully burning one he'd predicted. What he felt was a reaching out of a similar set of spokes within himself, intermeshing with the girl's wheel and trying to determine how well they interlocked.

Not well, Draco saw almost at once, as if someone were reciting a list of facts about her in his head. She was from a family of Mudblood-lovers, and she wasn't very powerful magically, and she was one of those "delicate" souls who needed constant hope and encouragement; he'd crush her in an instant. She couldn't bring Draco anything he didn't already have, and she would detract from his status significantly. And those were only his needs. His wants were so far above her head that she might as well have been a mouse aspiring to mate with an eagle.

He laughed coldly, and came back to himself with the sure knowledge that this girl wasn't his mate. She stared at him in terror, and a plump witch, presumably her mother, came up and chivvied her away, giving Draco a strange look.

Draco frowned and cast a quick spell that turned the polished wood of the bookshelves into a reflective surface. He blinked when he saw himself, and probably blanched, though he couldn't see it through the intense white blaze of light that surrounded his hair, making him look nearly as pale as those insufferable veela girls who had visited Hogwarts from Beauxbatons in fourth year.

The glow died after a moment, luckily, but Draco just _knew_ it would come back with every unsuccessful attempt he made to reach into someone else's mind and find his mate.

And, sure enough, it did. By the end of the afternoon Draco's humiliation was complete, as was his distaste for the idea of having a mate. His mother found him almost lurking behind the bookshop, and had explained the process of a half-veela finding his mate with cold serenity that didn't help Draco's temper.

"Yes, Draco, you will find your mate unexpectedly. The half-veela never consciously knows until his eyes meet his mate's. But it will not be simply _anyone_. It will be someone who can give you what you want and need—"

"I know that!" Draco snarled. His mother paused and gave him the disapproving look that made him feel five years old again, a child unfit to be in the company of adults. With difficulty, he forced himself to ignore it, even as he lowered the tone of his voice so that he would stop attracting attention. "But what if some traits outweigh others? What if my magic chooses someone who will satisfy my wants and needs, but is a _Mudblood_?"

"That won't happen," said his mother.

Draco paused and shot her a curious glance. "You seem awfully certain."

"I am," said Narcissa. "It is too essential to you that your mate not be a Mudblood, my son. Therefore, you will not choose one." Her hand closed lightly on his left forearm, pressing the hidden Mark and reminding him again that they were not free to do whatever they wanted, in this bold new world. Draco didn't know all the details of the deal his mother had brokered with the Ministry to enable her to retain control of the Malfoy properties and him to return to Hogwarts, but he knew it had involved her non-participation in the war and Draco's record of not killing anyone. It still left them with less freedom of movement than they'd ever had before. "The veela blood does what is best for _you_. Veela are essentially selfish creatures. What you find will be what you need _and_ what you want."

"And if I never find a mate at all?" Draco asked.

Narcissa raked him with a glance. "Did you read _any_ of the books about half-veela that I gave you, Draco?"

Draco saw a few curious stares come his way at the mention of "half-veela," and kept his head down, not wanting to meet anyone's eyes and glow with light again. "No," he muttered.

"I thought not." Narcissa somehow managed to make this sound like a character failing on par with dishonoring a family grave. Draco felt his cheeks burn. It was not _fair_, that she could do this when he had been through so much and suffered so much and come home considering himself a grown man, but there it was. "If a male half-veela doesn't find a mate by his nineteenth birthday, he will suffer five years of intense depression."

Draco snapped his head up again and stared at her. "Five _years_?"

"That is nothing, weighed against a lifetime with someone unworthy of your name and blood," Narcissa told him. "I _did_ consider confining you in your room for the duration of your attempts to find a mate, but I could not let you miss Hogwarts, not when I've worked so hard to let you return there."

Draco decided that he didn't care if they were in public or not. His mother was going too far in trying to assert control over him. He shook himself free of her grip, and simply didn't meet her chiding gaze. If she could make him feel small when he looked at her, he wouldn't look at her. He addressed the wall.

"Despite what you may think, Mother, I _have_ changed. I'm not a pliant child now. I wouldn't have stood for that."

"Let us go home, Draco," said Narcissa, taking out the Portkey that the Ministry Aurors had given to her with extreme reluctance. "We can continue our discussion there."

Even more conscious of the stares now, Draco nearly gave in to that tactic, but that would mean allowing her to control things. He stood and met her eye for eye, and actually managed to settle the flush in his cheeks and keep his voice reasonably level and calm.

"I _have_ changed," he said with quiet force. "I'm not the frightened child you had to protect two years ago, Mother. I'm not someone who's never seen death and bloodshed. I'm not someone who's cowed by easy threats, either." He lifted his chin and narrowed his gaze, striving for the touch of frost that Lucius always coordinated with his displeasure. "I don't want five years of depression. I am going to find my mate."

Narcissa made no move to grab him and activate the Portkey, at least, which was something Draco wouldn't have put past her. "And if your mate is someone utterly unworthy of you, my son?"

"You said my veela magic wouldn't choose a Mudblood," Draco reminded her.

"There are other ways of being unworthy," said Narcissa. "You know that very well. Your father and I debated long and often about whom you should marry, for exactly that reason. I decided against the option of secluding you, Draco, but that does not mean I am not hoping you will find your mate in someone I can live with."

Draco opened his mouth, then checked his temper and shut it. His mind was slowly waking to the fact that, perhaps, his mother not seeing he'd changed was an _advantage._

_Let her think she has more control over me than she does. That should result, if I'm careful—and it could take months—in her relaxing what control she does have. Let her think I'm still so committed to what she and Father wanted for me that I'd rather endure five years of depression than marry, or mate, to disappoint her._

Draco hoped his defiance today hadn't undone any chance he had of convincing Narcissa, but he thought her blindness and obduracy would actually work to his advantage. The last time his mother had truly known him, he'd been that child, terrified out of his mind that his parents would die if he didn't find some way to murder Dumbledore. And she _still_ considered him weak, Draco knew, for not being able to kill someone else. She had used that to their advantage when dealing with the Ministry and Scrimgeour, but that hardly meant her private opinion was anything but one of scorn. She would not understand that Draco had accepted that personal limitation and worked around and with it—he could torture, if he could not kill—and that that was a strength.

Draco lowered his eyes and gave a small nod. "I see what you mean, Mother," he murmured. "But I hardly have a choice in who my mate will be. You said that yourself."

He could feel Narcissa relaxing without even looking at her. She said, "Let us finish this discussion at home, Draco."

This time, he didn't object when she invited him to clasp the Portkey, a torn scrap of parchment. But he did leave Diagon Alley with quite a bit more in his head than when he'd arrived there.

_If my mate is supposed to give me what I want and what I need, then perhaps support in this struggle against my mother is one of those things._

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Draco finished his drink with a long, slow sip. The remembrance of what he'd sworn to do had calmed his irritation over the fact that his half-veela blood insisted on embarrassing him in public.

Of course, that in no way made him look forward to Hogwarts, which started in three days, and the fact that his magic would almost certainly be reaching out to most wizards and witches in the vicinity until his mate was found.

Draco would bear with it, though, and survive. He'd borne with worse in the war. And in the meantime, he'd take advantage of the Hogwarts library and the other Slytherin students who'd be returning, or joining him in seventh year. He intended to find a way around his father's will and insure that he _could_ have the money, and the Manor, earlier than it said he could.

True, Lucius Malfoy had been clever, and careful—far too careful to leave obvious loopholes. But he'd also made the final emendations to his will in the last year of his free life, before he died in Azkaban, and he wouldn't have been in perfect control of his emotions in the chaos that followed the Dark Lord's return. It was at least possible that he'd left an opening his equally clever son could exploit.

Draco had spent most of the summer wondering what his future was going to be like, and hating that his veela blood and his father's mistakes would play a part in dictating it. It was somewhat odd to suddenly discover a sense of purpose in life on a summer afternoon at the edge of a Quidditch Pitch, but, Draco supposed, it had been done in odder places.

_That's what I'm going to be. Not just my parents' son, but more than either of them are. My mother loves me, but she can't see me as more than a child. My father was powerful in his time, but he chose the wrong side and paid for it with his life. Neither of them has left a legacy I truly want to embrace. I will take what is important from them and create myself anew. I have, after all, an understanding of myself that neither of them had._

_And if my mate can be anyone who fulfills my needs and wants, then it could be someone extraordinary as easily as someone dull and boring. If everything I wish for comes true, then I'll have a magically powerful mate who also commands a good deal of social and political acumen, someone who doesn't need constant hope and encouragement to survive and even resists me sometimes, and someone who'll be strong and stubborn and canny enough not to be intimidated by Malfoy social circles. And perhaps other things I can't even imagine yet._

Draco smiled as Tilpy appeared with a _crack_ and Draco held out the glass to him to be refilled. He'd been thinking incoherent thoughts like this for most of the summer, but today was the first time he'd managed to put them into words.

_And maybe not. But even being saddled with an unworthy mate won't slow me down as much as five years of depression would. I'm afraid that not finding out who it is just isn't in the cards, Mother. I have large plans for those five years._

"Is Young Master Malfoy well?" Tilpy asked in concern. "Young Master is smiling a bit too much. Tilpy is worried about the sun."

"I'm just fine, Tilpy," Draco said softly, and leaned against the tulip tree, tilting his head back to gaze up into the branches.

_Nothing is going to make me less than I am—not my blood, and not my parents, and not my past._

_And certainly not my mate._

**Esrinthly:** I don't plan on any major character deaths, and the influence of the veela attraction will be almost nonexistent; I think it's an easy out in too many stories. Also, if the offer to beta is still open, I'd like to take you up on it, though the third chapter is going to take me longer to write. I had unexpected free time at work and a good idea of the plot for the first two.

**AtaivasKathryn:** That's _exactly_ what I'm hoping to avoid with this story. I've put what I hope are interesting obstacles in Draco and Harry's way, rather than just having them skipping along the merry road to romance.

**fragonknight01:** Narcissa has not told Harry _everything._ The second chapter reveals a few of those, and the third chapter reveals more.

**PhoenixxStarr:** I'd be honored if you want to list this story in your archive!


	3. Of the Ignoring of Facts

Thank you very much to my betas, Esrinthly and Bewildered Muse, who looked this chapter over very carefully and gave me extremely good advice about everything from grammar to characterization._  
_

_Chapter Three: Of the Ignoring of Facts_

"You're sure that's all there is?" Harry tried to keep his fingers from rapping out a nervous rhythm on the edge of the table in the Black library, but he couldn't help it. Hermione sat back and gave him the calm, annoyed look that she'd apparently perfected in the year they searched for the Horcruxes. At least, she looked much more serene than the memories Harry had of her from sixth year. Harry wondered where the girl who'd set canaries on Ron when she was exasperated with him had gone.

"I'm sure, Harry," she said. "Half-veela are just what Mrs. Malfoy told you, and I'm _sure_ they don't die if they can't find their mates in a year. Even if they are male."

Harry sagged back in his chair with a sigh of relief. If Malfoy wasn't going to die, then Harry didn't see why he had any obligation to let the git know he was his mate. He might suffer from depression, but, as his mother had said, he would like that better than being bound to the rival he'd hated for seven years of his life.

"Of course, there are a few things she didn't tell you," Hermione went on. She flipped open the book in front of her, eyes shining. Harry recognized _that_ look from the days before his eighteenth birthday celebration, when she'd helped the Weasleys plan the party, and became wary. "Half-veela do find the people they want and need, but their mates find what they want and need in the half-veela as well."

Harry blinked for a moment, then chuckled. "Pull the other one, Hermione."

"I'm completely serious," said Hermione, and pushed the book across the table to him. Harry took one look and glanced away, blinking. All the sentences he'd tried to read were at least eighty words long, and so laden with conditional clauses that he didn't see how anyone was supposed to make sense of the exceptions.

"Well, that _still_ doesn't mean I want to give my life up to him," Harry said. "I love Ginny."

Hermione's silence was telling, perhaps because she was so rarely silent. Harry shot her a grumpy glance. "What?"

"You _loved_ Ginny, Harry," Hermione said gently. "I know that you fell in love with her over the past year. But you told me you can't remember that. I'd just hate to see you deceive yourself, and Ginny."

"I didn't—" Harry closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair. Other than the sheer fact of his amnesia, that was what bothered him the most about the past year. He'd apparently had a wonderful girlfriend whom he'd been completely in love with, and he couldn't remember a whit of it.

"I may not feel exactly now what I did then," he said, forcing his eyes open. "But Ginny's still my girlfriend, Hermione. And she's your _friend. _I can't believe you would seriously suggest that I walk up to Malfoy, of all people, and—"

"I'm _not_ suggesting that, Harry." Hermione's face had turned a bit red. "The original topic of conversation was about what Mrs. Malfoy didn't tell you, if you remember." She reclaimed her book. "'Some people are naturally resistant to a half-veela's gaze, which needs eye contact to work, and reaches into the mind to pull out the dominant impressions of the possible mate's wants and needs,'" she read. "'There is a potion that can be brewed from the hair of such resistant people which makes it possible for the mate to block access to his or her mind. It is not often required, because few sane wizards and witches wish to refuse a half-veela who will grant them what they want and need.'" She frowned at Harry.

"I reckon I'm just lucky," Harry said lightly.

Hermione studied him intently for one moment more, then sniffed and went back to reading. "'The bond between mate and half-veela is never consciously completed until the recognition of the mate, but may be _unconsciously_ revealed, via dreams and the transfer mechanism—'"

Harry sat up. "What's a transfer mechanism?"

Hermione went on by way of an answer. " 'The bond will seek other means to establish itself in those rare cases where the mate's mind may be naturally resistant to the half-veela's gaze or where some other interference, such as blindness on the part of the half-veela, renders the usual means incapable of working. Often, this transfer mechanism will be something which affects both partners and symbolizes their prior relationship. Common examples are weather—as in the case of a Black half-veela in 1692 whose magic was too weak to permit her to recognize her mate, and who eventually recognized him by constantly being caught with him in the middle of cold rain showers—spells, and body fluids. In the case of a violent or antagonistic prior relationship, chaperones may be required, as the most common form for this transfer mechanism is hexes, jinxes or curses.'" She paused for another meaningful stare.

Harry shook his head, partly concerned but mostly confused. "I don't understand, Hermione. So Malfoy and I curse each other. What happens then?"

"The transfer mechanism _strengthens_ the bond, Harry," said Hermione. "It pulls you closer together. It increases the chances of recognition, even if you're taking the potion. That doesn't mean it's inevitable that Malfoy will recognize you as his mate if you curse him, because your transfer mechanism might be something entirely different, but do you really want to take the risk?"

"God, no," Harry muttered, and shook himself. "If this is your way of telling me to stay far away from Malfoy, Hermione, I'm hearing you."

He could feel his distaste at the idea creeping across his skin like cold slime. Why did the half-veela magic have to happen, anyway? Malfoy would survive without him. He would be as horrified at his blood's choice of a mate as his mother would; Narcissa had said so. And even _if_ Harry had had a martyr complex, he would make himself and Malfoy and Ginny miserable for the rest of their collective lives. The price wasn't worth it.

"I think it's the best idea, Harry," Hermione said, with a firm nod. "The only reason he might seek you out anyway is to reclaim his debt from you. We're not children anymore. We ought to be able to put these grudges aside."

"Yeah, well, it might help if Malfoy wasn't such a sadistic wanker," Harry muttered.

Before Hermione could reply, the Floo connection downstairs sparked, and Harry heard Ron's loud, cheerful voice calling Hermione's name and then his. "Harry? You aren't seducing my girlfriend, are you, mate?"

Hermione giggled, putting a hand over her mouth. Harry watched and told himself that he _wasn't_ envious. He was happy for his best friends, and what they had. Just because they could remember the love they'd found over the past year and he couldn't was no reason to be jealous of them.

_Yeah, and Malfoy wants you to move into a palace in London with him, _Harry thought. He shifted restlessly Ron came in. It helped that Ginny was behind Ron, and that she made eye contact with Harry and smiled right away. Harry stood and went around the table to kiss her. Ginny returned the kiss enthusiastically, then wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder with a soft sigh.

Harry stroked her back, and told himself to stop feeling awkward. Ginny remembered the past year even if he didn't, and she was happy to tell him all the stories he wanted to hear. She understood about the amnesia. Sometimes she got angry or frustrated, and who _wouldn't_ grow angry or frustrated, sometimes? But she always calmed down again and told him that she would wait as long as necessary for him to fall in love with her again. Harry _would_ fall in love with her, and marry her, and have children, and live near Hermione and Ron, and be an Auror, and visit Mr. and Mrs. Weasley every week for dinner, and have a completely normal life.

Nothing else was going to happen, because he wouldn't _let_ it. Voldemort was finally dead. He could stop being a hero, stop surviving and start living. That was all that was going to happen.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

"You're going to make me study for NEWTS the moment we get back to school, aren't you?" Ron teased Hermione. She could hear his smile even if she couldn't see it, since he had his head currently buried in her bushy hair as he stood with his arms wrapped around her.

"Why would you think I'm waiting until we get back to Hogwarts?" she answered him smartly. "I thought we could use this afternoon to study."

"Her_mi_one."

Hermione laughed and leaned up to kiss Ron's cheek again, but her eyes, and, she had to admit, half her concentration, were on Harry and Ginny. Ginny had her eyes closed and looked soft and perfectly content. Harry looked as he almost always had since he returned from destroying Voldemort, his face lost and half-desperate, trying frantically to remember what he had lost.

Hermione didn't know if he would ever remember, and, more than that, she didn't know if what he'd persuaded them all to do—act as if the return of his memory was inevitable, and that its loss had never happened—was the best thing, for him or for Ginny. Ginny was her friend, and Hermione would hate to see her hurt.

But, more than that, she wondered if Harry would truly go on growing in the direction the last year had seemed to promise. The person he'd become through the Horcrux hunt was a wonderful friend, and Hermione would mourn him if he was gone forever. But he wasn't the boy who stood in front of them now, the one who seemed to believe that he could change in the direction he wanted through sheer willpower.

_I wonder if Harry even knows what he wants anymore._

"Some attention would be nice, Hermione," Ron pointed out.

Hermione tilted her head back for a kiss, glad that, at least, the things she'd won from this last year had not _all_ departed.

OOOOOOOOOOO

"Remember that you're more than welcome to owl me at any time if anyone harasses you, Draco," Narcissa said softly, rearranging his robes so that the Slytherin crest stood out.

Draco smiled at her. "Of course, Mother," he said smoothly, and was rewarded with a beaming smile in return.

The last few weeks had been wonderful, he thought. He should have started deferring to his mother and pretending to be her mindless little puppet before this. When Narcissa thought he agreed with her on his half-veela blood, she became immensely more pleasant to be around. Draco had to remember to put up resistance on other matters, of course; a complete change to passivity would have made her suspicious. But by the time September first and the trip to Hogwarts came, she seemed to accept that he thought five years of depression a mild punishment for the horror of being bound to an unacceptable mate.

Draco had also confirmed that there was no book at all in the Malfoy library that might give him a way to get around the utterly unacceptable will his father had inflicted on him.

_There is Hogwarts, _he thought, and leaned up to kiss Narcissa on the cheek. They were standing on Platform 9 ¾, but Draco didn't care about the stares. _A Malfoy creates reality, _he reminded himself. _At least, any Malfoy worth his salt does. If they are staring, I must tell myself they are stares of homage. Anyone can dismiss and despise me. What is important is the way _I _react, what _I _think, not what _they _do._

"I'll owl you anyway, Mother," he said, and briefly clasped her hand. "I shall miss you."

Narcissa gave him a regal nod, and turned to glide back through the barrier. Draco flicked his wand, and floated his trunk towards the Express.

The stares lingered, but this time they changed from curiosity about a young man of eighteen kissing his mother to disgust. Draco knew _that _came from his father's name, the Mark on his arm, and the remembrance of what he'd done to the school, and to the Headmaster, in his last year there. Some of them might even think he'd killed Dumbledore, and assume that the Ministry was so susceptible to corruption they'd let him return to Hogwarts anyway.

Draco didn't intend to disillusion them. He would influence and change their perceptions of him when it suited his agenda. For now, this mixture of fear, curiosity, and disgust would do.

He made his way through the train in a rippling wake of silence, and seated himself in the old Slytherin compartment. Millicent Bulstrode, the only one there so far, looked up from a book and grunted at him.

"Morning, Bulstrode," Draco said. He could feel his eyes beginning to shine, and the light reaching out from them towards Millicent's mind. _Well, best to get it over with. _"How's the aftermath of neutrality?" Millicent's parents had avoided the war by the simple expedient of taking an extended holiday to Spain the day after Headmaster Dumbledore died.

She frowned at him, and Draco's beams of light reached the limit of her face—

And rebounded.

Draco staggered, biting his lip to keep his shock silent. He felt as if someone had picked up a stone wall and dashed him over the head with it. _Mother did say some people were naturally resistant to a half-veela's gaze. I suppose Millicent's one of them._

He looked up to find Millicent on her feet, her wand pointed at him.

"I don't know what you did, Malfoy," she said, calm tension poised in every line of her body. "If you do it again, I'll curse you. No questions asked."

"Calm down, Bulstrode," Draco muttered. Millicent might have gone with her parents to Spain, but she hadn't been idle. He could feel the magic crackling under her skin, ready to be released. "I'm a half-veela. My magic takes everyone that way, looking for my mate. I can't see your wants and needs because you can resist the gaze. That's all."

Millicent studied him for a moment longer, then slid her wand up her sleeve with a sharp nod and resumed her place. "Just as long as you understand that I won't put up with nonsense from you this year, Malfoy," she said. "None at all."

Draco studied her in silence. It seemed that Millicent was determined to either ignore his usual place as unofficial leader of the older Slytherins, or challenge him for it. True, most of the time she hadn't been a mindless follower anyway, but she had done what he told her to do when he told her to do it. That had changed.

_And why not? She probably either despises me as a Death Eater, or despises me for not being enough of one. _Draco had never been entirely certain where Millicent's sympathies on the blood issue lay.

He looked up as the compartment door opened and Pansy and Blaise came in. Pansy paused when she saw him. Blaise did the same thing behind her. It didn't escape Draco's notice that Blaise's hand rested on her shoulder. It seemed that Pansy wouldn't be running her fingers through his hair so freely this year after all, Draco mused.

The half-veela magic reached out quickly to both of them, and as quickly dismissed them. Blaise's wheel of light, in particular, refused to mesh with Draco's own wants and needs. Draco hid his delight with a cool mask. Either of them as his mate, while it would have made his mother very happy and his own life considerably easier in a few ways, would have unsettled relations in Slytherin. And it was clear, now, that he would need to fight to retain control of his House.

"Zabini," he said. "Parkinson. How—pleasant to see you." He nodded and slipped past them into the corridor, letting them chew on that welcome, or lack of it. In truth, his game would be determined by theirs, as well as by the responses of the other returning Slytherin seventh-years, Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass, and those former sixth-year students who would join them. But they didn't need to know that. Let them chew on his neutral words and the ambiguous pause, and worry about it for a time.

He moved slowly up the corridor, enjoying the startled looks that appeared on several people's faces when Draco made eye contact with them and had their minds suddenly revealed to him. There was only one other person who managed to rebuff him, a Ravenclaw fourth-year who showed signs of having been at Occlumency. Draco was learning to see advantages to this. _At the very least, knowing what other people want is going to be useful._

He walked past a compartment door just as it slid open, and a laughing voice and a laughing person intruded into his private space simultaneously. "I really don't think that—ouch!"

Draco turned to glare down at the person beside him, and found himself locking eyes with Ginny Weasley. He froze, which was an undignified thing for a Malfoy to do, but he couldn't help it. _Oh, please not a Weasley, I couldn't bear that, not her, anyone but her, Potter would be better than her—_

But it wasn't her. Her wants seemed to consist mostly of Harry Potter, her needs for someone who would treat her gently and considerately. Draco relaxed as he slid out of her mind, and she stepped away from him with a cross-eyed look, drawing her wand as she went.

"Are you bothering my sister, Malfoy?" came the predictable bull's bellow a moment later.

Draco rolled his eyes and leaned around the compartment doorWeasley had been sitting with one arm around his Mudblood girlfriend—whom the _Daily Prophet_ was often conspicuously silent about calling a hero; Draco had heard rumors that some rift between Granger and Rita Skeeter was to blame—and was now rising threateningly to his feet, face flushing.

Not Weasley, and not Granger, who was staring at him with some interest. Draco supposed it was possible she might actually recognize what he was, given the shine around his hair. If there was anyone who knew more about half-veela than the half-veela themselves, it would be her. _She probably knows all the little details about the bonding that I had no idea existed, _Draco thought grumpily. _She could even advise me on the best ways to recognize the transfer mechanism, if it exists._

"Of course I'm not bothering your sister, Weasley," he said at last, turning to face the corner of the compartment, and feeling his heart beat just that little bit faster. "Why would I bother _with_ a little piece of red-headed fluff that blows from boy to boy when one of them isn't sticky enough for her any more?"

Weasley, predictably, bellowed in rage again. Draco ignored him, too intent on watching Potter. It would be entertaining to see what he wanted, what he needed, and to remind him of the debt that he owed Draco, because Draco had saved his life in the Dark Lord's labyrinth.

It was childish of him to resume his rivalry with Potter immediately on arriving on the train, Draco had to admit. But he _deserved_ some childishness, damn it. His last year of life had been far too adult to suit him, long before he was ready for it.

Potter raised his eyes to Draco's face.

And Draco bounced from them, even more quickly and efficiently than he'd bounced from Millicent's. He shook his head, feeling disoriented, and, a moment later, grudgingly respectful. _Who knew that Potter could have mental defenses that strong?_

"Stop insulting Ginny, Malfoy," said Potter, who looked utterly bored. He reached out and gently gripped the Weasley girl's wrist, forcing her wand down. "Unless you have an addiction to the Bat-Bogey Hex."

And then he turned back to the book spread open on his lap, calm as one pleased.

Draco stared, stupefied. The last time he had seen Potter, he had been retching and ill, true, but he had still managed to glare when Draco reminded him that Potter now owed him a life debt. He shouldn't simply have turned his back on that as if nothing had happened! Even if Potter had grown beyond their rivalry, he should have resented the hold Draco had over him. And Draco didn't believe he could grow beyond it. Potter would be a child believing in impossible ideals until the day he died.

He didn't _care_, apparently, and that was infuriating.

"Why, Potter," he said, cocking his head and widening his eyes, while keeping one on the Weasley growling in the corner, "I didn't expect you to have such a _calm_ reaction to that kind of insult. Unless you're used to it, of course. Does she share? I imagine that some cock might go a long way towards compensating for how busy her cunt always is."

Potter whipped to his feet.

Draco felt a moment's smug triumph before the shine in Potter's eyes, like a vicious jungle cat's, reminded him that the boy in front of him had killed two people, while Draco hadn't been able to bring himself to kill one. And Bellatrix Lestrange had died _messily_. And Draco had heard Voldemort's dying screams, even if he hadn't been there to witness their source.

Potter's magic was filling the compartment, and it made tears start to Draco's eyes. He pressed himself carefully backwards, never taking his eyes from the holly and phoenix feather wand pointed directly at him.

"If you insult Ginny again, Malfoy," Potter said, his voice steady, "I'll simply assume that you want to use that debt I owe you to be tortured instead of killed. _Leave._"

Draco left. He knew when he was beaten. Potter had even brought the debt up himself, denying Draco that pleasure.

That didn't mean he would be defeated forever, of course.

_Interesting that I can still madden Potter that easily. And perhaps I can find a use for his debt in winning free of my mother, or finding my mate. _He felt a faint smile widen across his face, and used it to block out the memory of his terror when he'd stared into Potter's eyes. _Or, if I'm extremely clever—which I already know I am—both._

OOOOOOOOOOO

Harry sat down, put his wand back in his pocket, and picked up his book. He was aware of the silence in the compartment. Ron stared at him in awe, Ginny in consternation, and Hermione in concern. Harry didn't meet any of their eyes. He had to close his own to calm himself down.

God, for just a second he'd felt himself back in those moments he did remember from the war, the moments of killing. He'd been on the verge of cursing Malfoy, which was a horrible idea for so _many_ reasons. The git's half-veela status was the least of them.

_Well, at least it told me two things, _Harry thought humorlessly. _There's no way in the world I'm going to tell the wanker I'm his mate. And the potion works. All I have to do is take it for nine more months, and then Malfoy can lead his merry depressed life, and I can go back to mine without worrying about him._

"Harry?" Ginny whispered. "Are you all right?"

Harry forced a smile and looked up. "I should be the one asking you that question," he said, taking her hand and drawing her into his arms. "I'm sorry he insulted you like that, Gin." He knew he'd used the nickname more and more often in the last year, and from the bright smile on Ginny's face, it was just the right thing to do now.

"It's all right," she said, and leaned against his chest. "They're just words. I'm almost sorry he turned tail and ran, though. I'd have liked to show him what hexes can do when you _mean_ them."

Ron laughed, and Harry forced himself to join in. And then Ron was telling him he'd been brilliant, and he felt able to nod with a smile.

Hermione's gaze stayed on his face as if nailed there.

Harry avoided looking at her. _It's fine. I didn't curse him, even though I was ready to try, and it's not as though Malfoy's going to try that again. He might be an idiot and a torture-happy prat, but he doesn't have a death wish._

He would just ignore what one of Hermione's books had said about the half-veela blood trying to draw them closer together and force either conscious or unconscious recognition. He had to.

_I am going to have a normal life. _He closed his eyes and buried his face in Ginny's hair. _Because that's what I want._


	4. A Harder Year Than Expected

I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed. And, of course, both Esrinthly and Bewildered Muse, my wonderful betas, who've checked over the text of this chapter and made sure it's as free as possible of grammatical errors and Americanisms.

_Chapter Four: A Harder Year Than Expected_

Draco had all sorts of plans for what would happen when he climbed off the Hogwarts Express. He would make his way to a carriage in dignified silence. He might share one with Pansy and Blaise, depending on how well they had behaved themselves during the train ride. He would attend the feast and not act surprised by anything that happened. Then he would go to the library and select a few books that would help him research wills and testaments before he retired for the night.

It didn't happen that way.

Just as he climbed off the train at Hogsmeade Station, a figure approached him. It stumped wildly along with a swaying limp that made Draco think of a bad encounter with the three-legged guardian of a certain Death Eater house. He had actually lifted his wand before the man called out, "Malfoy, come with me," and turned around and started limping back the opposite way.

Draco lifted his head and followed, levitating his trunk behind him. He told himself it was dark enough that no one could possibly have seen his face go pale when the voice called out.

It belonged to Mad-Eye Moody.

His cloak blew back, allowing Draco to see the wooden leg that replaced one of his—no, actually, _both_ limbs, now, he realized. Both legs were wooden, and one was shorter than the other, accounting for Moody's horrible lurching gait. Draco curled his lip. _Why in the world didn't he get an even pair of legs carved?_

"You'll keep a polite expression on your face, boy."

Draco quickly relaxed his face. He'd forgotten about the magical eye that could roll around in Moody's head, and was now resting on the back of his skull, pointing directly at him. He tried to look calm and rational and absolutely uninsulted as they proceeded up the steps into the entrance hall and then towards the Headmaster's office. No, it would be the Headmistress's office now. Draco knew McGonagall had taken over for Dumbledore.

"What is this about?" he dared to ask, when Moody had growled something under his breath to the gargoyle in front of the office and it had leaped aside.

"You'll find out when you're meant to find out," Moody said, and added something that Draco decided to ignore but which had the phrase "Death Eater spawn" in it. The ride up the moving staircase was consequently silent, but Draco could feel the magical eye riveted to him. And probably the normal one too, but he refused to glance over.

The Headmistress's office was warm, at least, and even cheerful, with the flare of fire in the hearth and lights from torches all along the walls. Draco didn't intend to show how grateful he was for the presence of McGonagall behind the desk. As long as someone else was in the room with him and the madman, then Draco was unlikely to become a ferret again and go bouncing about.

"Headmistress," he said, and made his voice calm and patient. It was the voice his father had used for dealing with the other school governors. "I was accosted as I stepped from the train and brought here without explanation. I suppose there has been some mistake? The Ministry itself gave me special dispensation to attend Hogwarts this year, along with other students whose education was—disrupted."

McGonagall tightened her lips as she stared at him. Draco kept himself from sneering back, but it was a near thing. She had never been his favorite teacher. She was competent at Transfiguration, of course, and a good teacher of the theory behind it, but she had too much of the sour uptight disposition in her. It was impossible to make bargains with her. Draco had on occasion used her fairness against her when he got into disputes with her precious Gryffindors, but he doubted she would give him much leeway when he'd let Death Eaters into the school.

As it turned out, not only did she give him no leeway, she hardly bothered with courtesy.

"Professor Moody is teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year," she said abruptly. "He is also your minder."

Draco raised an eyebrow, and then stiffened, a calculated reaction. _Everything has to be calculated, remember, even if you do want to kill someone right now. _"I need a _minder_?" he asked, making sure to pace his words a few even pauses apart. Moody chuckled from beside him. Draco ignored that and awaited an answer. _This can't be right. Mother would have mentioned something like this._

_Unless—_

_Unless she didn't know, in which case the Ministry is playing a game we don't know about, or unless she wanted to wait to mention it for an advantage over me._

"It is a condition of the Ministry's permission for _you_ to attend Hogwarts," said McGonagall. Draco tried to pretend he hadn't noticed the weight on the pronoun. "You will report to Professor Moody every Tuesday and Thursday evening for an hour, at a time to be arranged with him. You will discuss your experiences of this past year, and the—year before that, and explore your remorse for what happened and your attempts to improve your behavior. When Professor Moody is satisfied that you will behave in a manner consistent with a student of this school, then he will allow you to cease the sessions. Not before."

Draco inclined his head. "Of course, if such meetings will satisfy the Ministry's request, then I am happy to attend them."

He wanted, oh, how he _wanted_, to talk about the extenuating circumstances of the last year he'd actually spent at Hogwarts. He wanted to ask McGonagall if she knew how hard it was to try to keep up a façade of normality while trying to find some way to save his parents' lives _and_ perform the impossible task the Dark Lord had set him. He wanted to remind her he hadn't actually killed Dumbledore, and she knew that because she'd been here that night.

But he kept it all inside. He turned his anger into frozen determination to make a difference with his life when he left Hogwarts the summer after this year. _The best revenge is living well. Someone will pay for this, someday, but it doesn't have to be right now. I'll get through this first._

"They don't satisfy the Ministry's request," said McGonagall.

Draco bit his lip and raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes," said Moody, horribly cheerful. Draco looked at him to see the man's normal eye fixed on him, while the magical one rolled around his head, apparently unable to contain its glee. "I'll also be supervising you on weekends. You don't need to leave the school, of course, because Hogsmeade is a privilege denied to arrogant little murderers such as yourself—"

"_Alastor_," said McGonagall in a resigned tone.

He might not have heard her. "And you'll need to show me that you can do something useful with your time." He leaned nearer, and Draco had to fight not to flinch. His face was scarred in a way that Draco knew his own might have been if his aunt Bella had caught up with him, or if the Dark Lord had preferred wound-causing spells to pain curses. "Something that doesn't involve plotting to let Death Eaters into the school."

"That is enough, Alastor," said McGonagall quietly, standing. "But the general import of what he says is true enough, Mr. Malfoy. Many in the Ministry and among the students' parents feel, understandably so, that we have taken a great risk in letting you attend Hogwarts this year. You will have to prove that you deserve the privilege of being trusted."

Draco folded his arms. "I will have to attend Hogsmeade on weekends when such freedom is permitted to all the seventh-year students, Headmistress," he said.

"What part of 'no' do you not understand, Malfoy?" Moody chuckled.

"I'm a half-veela," Draco told the Headmistress. He hadn't believed that he'd be grateful for his blood so soon, but he was. Distantly, he noted that his magic hadn't reached out to either the Headmistress or Moody, but it hadn't reached out to the older people at King's Cross, either. There seemed to be an age barrier beyond which the magic wouldn't recognize the wants and needs of the mind that confronted it. "I have only a year from my birthday to find my mate, or live with five years of depression. I need the freedom to move around Hogsmeade and encounter people I might not meet in the day-to-day round of classes. If you won't authorize me to do that, then I'll be owling the Ministry again, to complain about my treatment here."

McGonagall blinked. At least she hadn't anticipated that, Draco consoled himself. That decreased the likelihood that his mother had been in contact with the Ministry and the school and known about this "minder" business beforehand. Otherwise, he didn't think the news would have caught McGonagall so by surprise.

"So you have to live without your mate." Moody grunted. "It's no more anguish than your father's cronies brought to hundreds of families."

Draco glared at him. He received a glare in return that told him this man would be a dangerous enemy. But he didn't care. He'd faced dangerous enemies in the last year, too, and made more than one whimper when he cast the Cruciatus Curse.

"Unfortunately, Alastor, Mr. Malfoy is quite correct." McGonagall's voice was heavy with reluctance. "It is usually not a problem, because most half-veela have left Hogwarts before their eighteenth birthdays, but in the past, those who had not were permitted perfect freedom to search, until they could be satisfied that their mates were nowhere nearby."

"Even Death Eaters?" Moody did seem stuck on the conviction that that was what he was to call Draco.

"No matter what," said McGonagall.

Moody simply shrugged. "Then I won't supervise you on Hogsmeade weekends, Malfoy." He smiled at him, and Draco fought to keep from taking a step backwards. "But at all other times, yes."

Draco just nodded, because he couldn't think of an objection yet. He would owl his mother shortly and try to determine if she had known about this or not.

They left the Headmistress's office with a few more wan words from her about how glad she was to see Draco at Hogwarts. The moving staircase had barely begun to wind down when Moody lunged forward and leaned over Draco like some horrid vulture. This time, Draco did tense up and put some distance between them.

"Remember, in case you have any thoughts of avenging your father or your master," Moody whispered. "I am _always_ watching. Particularly if you go near Potter, or anyone else who fought to rescue our world from _your_ kind."

Draco simply nodded. He was sure that Moody's "supervision" would extend to looking over his reading material. He would have to be even more careful about which books he tried to retrieve from the Hogwarts library.

Strangely, that only made him all the more determined, rather than dismayed.

_I am going to become successful. And no one's going to stop me._

OOOOOOOOOO

Harry had somehow not thought the Sorting Feast would be a nightmare until he actually entered the Great Hall. When he actually got there, he realized he'd been naïve.

It started with an excited cry from the Gryffindor table. "Harry! Harry, over here!" As Harry faced that way, a camera flash blinded him, and Colin Creevey's voice called, "That was almost perfect, but can you turn your head a little more to the right and smile next time?"

And then a storm of whispers broke out across the hall. Students were rising to their feet to see him. The first-years were breaking out of the neat line Professor Sprout had gathered them in to stare and point. Nearly everyone, except those who sat at the Slytherin table, was applauding. Colin leaned from the middle of his table and went on taking photographs, some so fast that Harry thought he had two cameras.

And he could only stand there, frozen in the act of lifting a hand to shield his face, and feeling like an idiot, while they cheered him for a killing that he remembered too well and a quest that he'd accomplished with the help of other people and couldn't actually remember.

At last, Ginny's arm around his waist reminded him of where he was and what was important. Harry lifted his head, plastered a bright fake smile on his face, and made his way across the Great Hall to the Gryffindor table. He hoped he'd be less visible once he sat down.

It didn't happen. Once he sat, Professor Flitwick hopped up from behind the head table and squeaked, "A toast to the Boy-Who-Lived!" A flick of his wand had put some kind of foaming drink in at least half the goblets in the Hall, even though the food for the Feast hadn't appeared yet. Other people snatched up the goblets to echo him. There were even a few people doing it at the Gryffindor table, like Seamus, who should _know better._

Harry lowered his head into his arms, his face flaming so hotly that he ignored Hermione's poke in his side to try and make him look up. Besides, they didn't really need to see him, did they? They were quite happy chorusing out, "To the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Killed-You-Know-Who!" and draining their goblets of the drink. From the sounds of it, Flitwick had filled the other half of the Hall's goblets with the drink this time, and he was leading them in another toast.

"I wish Snape was here," Harry muttered.

"What was that, mate?" Ron peered at him when Harry lifted his head.

"Snape could get them to _shut up_," said Harry, and flinched as another flash exploded practically in his face. He resisted the impulse to grab Colin's camera and toss it into the wall, instead turning what he hoped was a long-suffering but still patient expression on the younger boy. "Could you please not do that right now, Colin?"

"Oh, of course!" Colin exclaimed, lowering the camera to the table. "Sorry, Harry. I'll take a few in private later, all right? Since we're sharing a room this year."

Harry, who had been turning forward and trying to catch the eye of someone who wasn't staring at him like he was a hero, froze. "What?"

"Didn't you know?" Colin went right on beaming at him beneath a star-dazzled stare. "The students who were sixth-years last year are sharing a room with you—I mean, the students who made the bargain with the Ministry to come back. And that means I'm sharing with you, Harry." He gave Harry a wise nod, as if the act of sharing a room would bond them in some mysterious way.

"Hermione," Harry whispered.

Hermione looked at him, biting her lip. Harry couldn't be sure if she was trying to hold back a smile or words of comfort. "Yes, Harry?"

"Tell me this is all a horrible nightmare, and I'll wake up safe and sound in Grimmauld Place in a minute," Harry whispered.

The look of sympathy won, and Hermione patted his arm. "Look, Harry," she said. "People are already sitting down again. It'll die down, especially if you don't show how much it bothers you."

"But I have to be 'gracious,'" Harry said, imitating the voice of the old witch who had come up to him in Diagon Alley while they were shopping for school supplies. Harry had tried to hide his face from public view and public fawning, to the extent of dodging behind an extremely fat wizard carrying a large pile of blankets. The witch had chased him and told him that heroes were supposed to smile. "What kind of role model am I for children otherwise?"

Hermione's face changed again. "Well, I didn't mean ignore everyone, Harry, of course," she muttered. "But it _will_ die down. It's not as though you plan to run for Minister."

"You're running for _Minister_?" Colin piped in, sounding impressed. Unfortunately, Colin's voice was very shrill and made heads turn all over the Great Hall.

"_No_," said Harry, forcefully enough that Colin sat back looking a little hurt. He tried to soften his voice as Ginny put a calming hand on his shoulder. "No, that's just a silly rumor. But all the pictures and the attention make me really uncomfortable, Colin. Could you try to take a few less pictures? Even when we're in private?"

"Oh, it won't be many, Harry!" Colin's face had relaxed again. "And I promise I won't sell them to the _Daily Prophet_. They'll just be for me to keep. And maybe you could sign them someday. But you don't have to right now," he added hastily, probably because Harry's face was darkening again.

Harry buried his head in his arms with another groan and did his best to ignore the noise of the Sorting.

_This would be so much easier if I did remember everything, _he thought mournfully. _Then I would feel like I did something, besides a murder. Ron and Hermione are heroes, and they act like it, too. And they've told me I did, but I can't remember growing up like that. I'm ready to go on the Horcrux quest, but it's already accomplished, and they want me to rest on my laurels. It's all so strange._

_I reckon I can get used to it, and keep listening to the stories, and try to change back into the person I was. It's the only chance._

"Do you need to leave the Hall, Harry?" That was Ginny whispering into his ear.

Harry raised his head and shook it. "I don't want to show them how much they bother me, Ginny," he whispered. "I'll be fine. But thanks." He pressed her hand, and felt a little guilty for how much she lit up at the simple gesture of affection. If she hadn't been in love with him, he would have broken up with her again. It wasn't _right_ that she was tied to someone else who had lost the life she shared. She deserved to find a bloke who could make her happy and who would remember doing it.

Abruptly, he realized her eyes were narrowed and focused on his face. _Oops._

"Harry James Potter," she whispered, "I told you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. And for me, too. We'll wait. And if your amnesia's never cured, then we'll make new memories."

Harry took a deep breath and tried to dismiss the anger and the self-pity blowing through him. He nodded and mustered up a smile. _Look gracious. _"You're right. I'm sorry, Gin. This is more stressful than I thought it would be."

Ginny nodded, and sat back to look thoughtfully at Colin. Harry recognized the look. Colin might soon regret his prattle about taking pictures of Harry in private.

_Either that, or she'll make him give the pictures to her, _Harry thought.

He looked up as Moody entered and nodded respectfully to the old wizard. He had been present at the battle where Moody had lost his second leg, though he couldn't remember it. The Death Eaters had made a bold attack in the middle of Diagon Alley at noon. Hermione had told him that dozens of people would have died if Moody hadn't been there, roaring like a bull and firing off so many curses that half the Death Eaters were down, dead, or dazed before they realized what was happening.

For some reason, Malfoy followed Moody. Harry frowned, wondering what that was about.

Then he slapped himself lightly on the side of the head, since Ginny didn't know about Malfoy being a half-veela and couldn't do it for him this time. _You don't have to wonder about anything where Malfoy's concerned, Harry. It's better if you don't, in fact. Just take your potion like a good little boy and wait for him to give up searching for his mate._

That reminded him. He took out the small vial Narcissa had given him and tilted five drops of the silvery potion into his hand, lifting them carefully to his tongue.

Ginny watched sympathetically. Harry had already told her that he had to take the potion because the Healers were worried that he carried hidden curses from walking Voldemort's labyrinth. He'd been on enough potions in the first few weeks after Voldemort's death that she had no trouble accepting the story.

Harry regretted keeping the secret from Ginny and Ron, but he'd discussed it with Hermione, and she'd been in favor of the idea. Ron wouldn't have been able to resist the temptation to taunt Malfoy with it, Hermione said, and that would have given the whole game away about Harry being his mate. "I love him, Harry," she'd added. "But I also know him, and this would only cause trouble."

And she had thought Ginny probably wouldn't have kept the secret from Ron. Besides, Ginny didn't need the extra stress of worrying that Malfoy would somehow manage to steal Harry away from her.

"What's that potion?" Colin piped in.

"For war injuries," said Harry shortly, swallowing. He did better with the potion when he didn't have to think about what was in it.

Across the Great Hall, he could see Malfoy's hair starting to glow as he again sought out some helpless person to be his mate. Harry shuddered at the thought of having someone poke about in his head like that.

_Well, at least no one will have to suffer the torment of being bonded to the git. Except the girl he marries after his nineteenth birthday, I suppose, but that person will choose it. _

"Wow, Harry, you were _wounded_?" Colin asked.

Harry concealed a sigh and turned to answer the questions, reminding himself again and again that this was better than many other things that could have happened to him. Malfoy discovering Harry was his mate, for example.

OOOOOOOOOO

Millicent prepared for bed in thoughtful silence.

None of the other girls bothered her. There were Pansy, Daphne, and two former sixth-year girls, Amaranth Johnson and Jessica Flint, sharing the room this year, but all of them knew enough to get out of the way. Pansy and Daphne talked quietly to each other the way they always had—or at least Pansy talked and Daphne listened. Amaranth was reading already; it had always been Millicent's opinion that she really belonged in Ravenclaw. Jessica sat on her bed and stared into space. There were rumors that she had suffered a traumatic event during the war, and it had left her almost completely withdrawn.

Millicent had investigated the rumors, and found enough substance in them to satisfy herself of their truth. On the other hand, Jessica's incapacity wasn't the kind that would disrupt Millicent's life. That meant she could mostly ignore it. If an opportunity arose to use the girl, she would know how to do so.

She had been more interested in the boys, to tell the truth. Theodore had revealed himself to be as much of a loner as ever, not substantially changed by the war. Blaise was so wrapped up in Pansy he'd think Muggles hung the moon if she told him so. Quintus Harper, who'd been a year behind them, was a riper target, ready to be manipulated if Millicent just learned a little more about him. He already had that desperate eagerness to please that showed he was looking for a leader. As soon as Millicent could find out what would control him best, she intended to sway him to her side.

And then—

Then there was Malfoy.

Millicent sat down on her bed and pulled her curtains shut. She drew her wand and cast a spell that made two, then four, then eight white sparks of light come into being around her as they divided.

Draco had been the unofficial leader of Slytherin House in the years before the war. Millicent had followed him because that was what one did, and because she really had no objection to it. His father had been powerful, and Draco seemed virtually sure to follow in Lucius Malfoy's footsteps. Besides, it wasn't as though Millicent had some sort of moral objection to torturing Gryffindors or opposing that foolishness they insisted on calling nobility.

But then the war had started, and Lucius Malfoy had died in Azkaban, and Draco had been revealed as a Death Eater who _ran_. And who _failed._

And who, if the most interesting rumor about him was true, could not kill.

Millicent smiled. At a wave of her wand, the sparks began to spin and dance around her head.

Such a boy didn't deserve to lead Slytherin House, much less achieve the position of power in the real world that often came from establishing connections inside Hogwarts. And with his father removed, his best chances for achievement were gone. Of course, Draco would still think he should be the leader just because he had been before the war, and he was ambitious enough to claw after power anyway. He wouldn't give up, but he was no longer as formidable an opponent as he had been.

Millicent lay back and watched the sparks slowly pair off, whirling around each other like binary stars.

So she would have to fight him for control of the House. But she intended to win. There was not only a loss of prestige on Draco's part; there was also the fact that she had gained.

At another flick of her wand, the sparks clashed together in a violent burst of light that dropped down flakes of radiance smelling like burned human flesh.

Millicent smiled again and stretched her arms above her head.

Spain had been useful.

She rolled over, placed her wand beneath her pillow, and closed her eyes. Draco was not only delightfully weak, he was apparently half-veela and had a need for a mate. If he was not lying, that could be a chink in his armor greater than any of the others.

Millicent drifted off to sleep, dreaming of ways to use every single piece of information she'd gathered so far to her advantage.


End file.
